“You want a serious-minded, good-looking fellow, a man of distinction and presence. I am flattered by your offer. If I have no more pressing engagement on that day I’ll be at the ringside. Now I’ll pay for one more drink and we must be on our way.”
The two friends parted, for there was much to do on the morrow, and Labar, at least, felt the need of a night’s rest.
He was astir early in the morning, but as he propped the Daily Mail up by his eggs and bacon he forgot a healthy appetite as his eyes scanned the page which was practically all devoted to the roundup and captures of the preceding day. The final column of the “story” was headed:
Tragic Death of Mr. Solly Gertstein.
Great Financier Dies of Heart Failure on Learning of his Wife’s Arrest.
“A tragic episode was added to this great feat of Scotland Yard on the receipt of the news in London last night. Some account of the affair was published in the last editions of the evening papers, and in the stop press column the name of Mrs. Adèle Gertstein was given in the list of persons who were detained by the police.
“Late last evening Mr. Gertstein was found by one of his servants sitting fully dressed in his room with a copy of an evening paper clutched in his hand. A doctor was summoned but his assistance was of no avail. Mr. Gertstein was dead. …”
There followed a biographical sketch of the dead man’s activities, and some speculation as to what might happen to the fortune he had left.
Labar tossed the paper aside. “Poor old chap,” he murmured. He turned thoughtfully to his breakfast. He was sorry in a way for the fate that had overtaken the little millionaire, but that was no reason why he should go hungry. It was a tragedy, of course, but he did not feel any personal responsibility. In charging Mrs. Gertstein he had acted merely as an agent of the law. He wondered what Penelope would have to say about it.
Nothing could alter what had happened. What was the use of worrying. He finished his breakfast with zest, and pausing on his way out to glance in a mirror in the hall to assure himself that he was scrupulously dressed he set off for Grape Street.
Both Marlow, the detective superintendent, and Moreland were already there, as well as a bunch of the divisional C.I.D. men. The inspector who had taken charge of the division during Labar’s absence, slid out from his seat at the desk.
“Just about your last day as a divisional detective inspector,” smiled Marlow. “Slip into it, my lad. In an hour and a half you’ll have to be in court.”
Labar flung himself on the pile of papers with desperate energy. He perceived that Moreland had taken many matters of detail into his own hands, for there were statements, signed by officers under the control of the latter, among the mass of documents.
Now and then something arose on which he would seek the comment of his two confrères. Then it would happen that one of the waiting divisional staff would be despatched on some inquiry or other mission by which a point might be made clear.
Although so many of the gang had been swept into the meshes of the net with Larry there still remained—as was inevitable in such a wide spread organisation—a number of associates whom it was essential to run down. There was still more work in planning a course of campaign among those merely suspected to be associates. In one or two cases it was decided to make arrests with the reasonable certainty that evidence to justify them would arise at a later stage. Now that Larry’s reign was over the detectives anticipated no difficulty with a class of informant which had been rather shy while he remained at liberty.
Among those who were to be arrested and definitely charged was Gold Dust Teddy. Detective Sergeant Down to whom was entrusted the execution of this mission, received his orders with satisfaction. The absence of Teddy was likely to make a difference in the statistics of crime.
“That’s the lot,” said Labar, at last. “We’ll be able to use Stebbins as King’s evidence if the Public Prosecutor agrees. Not that the evidence isn’t clear enough without him. I suppose that I’ll have to see him now.”
Marlow looked at his watch. “Not till after the court proceedings you won’t. Moreland had a chat with him some time after midnight. All clear cut on the general matter. Everyone will be charged today with stealing and receiving the Gertstein stuff. It’s only formal today and other charges can be added at the next hearing.”
“There’s Mrs. Gertstein. I’m sure she was not in the robbery.”
“No,” said Moreland. “Do you think that I’m an ass. The case against her is attempted murder and forgery.”
“Plain sailing as far as things go at present,” said Marlow. “But Larry won’t go down without a struggle. Take it from me that if there is anything money can do it will be done. If there is any weakness in the case it will be pulled to pieces at the Old Bailey.”
To this proposition neither of the inspectors deemed it worth while to reply. Indeed, it was self-evident. It would be doing Labar an injustice to say that he did not care what happened at the trial. Theoretically, of course, he should be as impartial as the jury. It was his business—theoretically—to apprehend rogues on reasonable suspicion, and to leave the question of their guilt or innocence to the court.
In actual fact though prepared to present his case with fairness he was determined to strain every nerve to
